I'm trapped and I don't know where to go nor exit nor default this child's play it's killing me in a way (sort of) and it's trashy rough tough talk love hate fish (not sure what I'm saying)

[[breathe in, breathe out]]

It's a mess! It's a mess! I'm sorry to say, and I'm sorry to DO (I don't know what to DO, i don't know what to DO DO DO).

I'm not really sure WHO is in control anymore
(minus 2 minutes
minus the minutes)

NO FEELINGS HURT, PLEASE!

I don't want to shed any ... needless, unnecessary blood.
Blood? That's being to forceful if you may.


1NK.


And that's why I'm being cowardly and 1NK1NG it up right now.

Yeah, maybe I'm running.
And tumbling away from ... your pouty lips and dirty eyes.


STOP!


STOP --

block it off and away!

I can't, I can't.
But I don't want to.
But I want to.

shadow girl

I looked at her thighs--
boney thin and erect;
dim and graceful and
everything I wanted i
n myself and in my m
ind. Her legs, so slend
er and civil and classy
. Her arms, sleek as b
arbed wire, cold to th
e touch (her touch wa
s ever so vague and c
omplacent). She looke
d once familiar to me,
like a mirror rebound
ing off the asphalt ins
tead of glass. The "s
ilver" girl, (gold is exh
austed). Her face was
meaningless to me; a
clean slate--as clean a
s the chalkboards that
leave vague imprints a
fter furiously trying to
erase any lovely mista
k es. She is me, yet
I am not her.

I am so jealous.

I want her. I wa
nt to be
her.
.
.
.

- - - - -

Inspiration: A young girl once told me, "I wish I looked like my shadow" as we were walking outside one day. She was telling me this as she was looking at her shadow stretching across the concrete as the sun was setting (yet in this poem, I stated that the shadow is running along asphalt, not concrete). At such a young age, this girl was unhappy with her body weight. This poem is trying to reenact that dissatisfaction, yet I think it goes so much deeper than words can depict.

My super-ego forbids it

this forbidden tango,
the uncoordinated
left-footedwaltz.

one step:
We loved each other.

second beat:
We almost kissed.

third turn:
you stepped on me.

fourth twist:
i truned aawy

fifth step:
i lsot my pcale

My super-ego forbids it,
my id says to LEAVE,
to find another twist-and-turner.
Someone who won't merely
"Carry you
(with
Footsteps
in theSand)."


but,

I want to dance.
I want to tango.

My ego says yes,
my heart says no.


It's paradoxical.


- - - - -

Just to clear up things... This poem isn't about love. It's about making an important decision... And if you caught this, I bolded the "t" in "tango" on purpose.

The rogue transcendentalist. Solidarity isn't the trick.

This isn't what I really call poetry, but more so... a collection of thoughts. Random thoughts minced from scribbles of so long ago, somewhat merged into one piece. I don't really TRULY know how a poem should be, but nevertheless this is a rambling production.

- - - - -


"Break-wall-shatter,
stones of glitter and ice."

I've used that metaphor all too often
to head me in "vultur-ific" circles
that are cast overhead in my
brain.

Mallets might do the trick;
but what's enough to break The Wall?
The barriers are ESPECIALLY thick
(made of sturdy steel).

I've said it before:
glass porcelain is easy to shatter,
but not encased in dead sycamore.

Stop your dancing, you drama queen:
Get out of that dream box and learn a new tango or two.

This is not poetry.
(I repeat: this-is-not free verse anymore.
Only structured,
perfect rhythm.
For once, maybe, you should just go along
and disappoint Thoreau.)

I am not,
I will not,
complain.

The situation room.

Let's start the debate:

I'll be an axon,
and you'll be the brain.
And we'll duel
(to a certain extent).

Conscience says:
"Hear me,
hear me.
You're the good girl;
now do as I say and get drunk
on sodium-potassium waves
raging through your vulnerable bones.
Your spinal cord is mine."

Heart says (meekly and soul-driven): i dun haf ta lissen ta yah blasfemic propeganda alla des wurds alla deese dots dey are HEART-drivin--MINE for da keepin'.

(and, from heaven descents, an Eagle of tumored proportions
perching on the pedestal with defiant radiance and quiet,
yet entrenched, Position! Authority! Ethos!)

He said to the duelists (strictly and hopefully as a MEDIATOR):
" 'Relax,' said the wise man.
Approach with rationality,
but abandon practicality
if your fight ends to the
death. And when all
other things fail,
choose wisely."

......

Alas, my friends. The duel is on, but the flame isn't extinguished.
The torch is burning and running nationwide.
The battle isn't ending. It runs in circles and circles.
When will it end? This debate?
Oh, how I hate arrogant competitors.